On Saturday morning the youngest one calls from his flat to say that, after many delays, the building’s management have finally installed pigeon netting over the shit-covered landing outside his front door. Unfortunately, he says, they have somehow managed to trap a pigeon inside the netting. My wife comes down to my office while she’s on the phone with him, so I can listen along. “You’re just going to have to wait till it calms down, and then throw a tea towel over it,” she says. I am enjoying this new arrangement, whereby domestic emergencies happen elsewhere, and I follow events remotely. “Then what indeed,” my wife says. “Ring me back if there’s any progress.” “I’m glad I’m not there for that,” I say. “You’d be useless,” my wife says. “Anyway, we’ve done everything and we’re ready for you.” What she means is: the middle one’s stuff is piled up, ready to go to his new flat as soon as you’ve put it in the car. There’s not actually that much stuff – two carloads of bedding, clothes, pictures and randomly allocated mugs. There is no one else in the flat when we arrive, although there’s evidence to suggest that one of his two flatmates has already moved in. “You’ll need some hangers,” my wife says, opening a cupboard door. “And there’s no wifi yet,” he says. “I might just sleep at home tonight.” My wife looks stricken. “Oh,” she says. “What?” he says. “I’m painting your room today,” she says. What she means is: of course you can spend one more night. On Sunday, everyone turns up for lunch and talks over one another for three solid hours. The youngest one finishes the story of the pigeon. “So I finally got the tea towel over it,” he says. “And then I picked it up and brought it in.” “You brought a live bird into your flat?” I say. “I had no choice,” he says. He carried the traumatised pigeon to a window and released it into the air, whereupon it fell two storeys into a bush. “I’m sure it’s fine,” I say. At teatime the middle one departs without fanfare. The oldest one and the youngest one bicker about who is going to the shops to get more beer. I make it clear that if they ever manage to settle the question, they should also get some wine. Then, suddenly, everyone goes home. My wife and I are left alone with only the cat, the dog, the tortoise and each other. That night I wake at three: the house is impossibly quiet. All I can hear is my ears ringing from lunch. I cannot get back to sleep. The next morning the cat comes to my office door looking bereft. It only ever really loved the middle one. “I can’t give you anything but food,” I say. “And I already fed you.” My wife comes to the door next. “Do you want to see what I’ve done?” she says. What she means is: I have taken four large sheets of paper, painted them with sample colours and taped them to the walls of the middle one’s bedroom, soon to be our bedroom. She wants to know which I prefer. I look from one sheet to another with an appraising eye. “They’re all white,” I say. “They’re not white,” she says, pointing to where she has written the names of the colours on each sheet: stone, buttermilk, dead tooth, lichen. “So they’re different?” I say. “Of course they’re different,” she says. “They’re even different in different lights – look.” She swaps one sheet for another on an adjacent wall. I stare at both for a long time. “Ah yes,” I say. That afternoon I listen to music in my office, as loud as I want, because who cares? After a while I become aware of another sound, a plaintive voice with an impatient edge to it, saying my name over and over. I step outside my office, head tilted. “Hello?” I say. “I’m locked out!” says the voice. It is my wife calling over the wall to me from a side road. I go through the house, meeting her out front by the car. “What happened?” I say. “Did you wander off?” “I was doing the bins and the door blew shut,” she says. “Then I had to walk all the way round because you’re so deaf.” “I’m going to get you a bracelet with your address on it,” I say. “I’m going to get you a fucking hearing aid,” she says. And with that we go back inside, to our new life together.